


"Your predator hands reached"

by lazyroughdrafts



Series: Beast in the Headlights [4]
Category: Elementary
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Jaime is watching Watson, Sherlock is watching Jaime, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyroughdrafts/pseuds/lazyroughdrafts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Black like her heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Your predator hands reached"

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know why I'm posting this. It's the second to last bit. Hopefully it will make sense in series.

"You seem tense." He says this as he watches her face closely for signs perhaps only he knows how to interpret.

"Do I?" She asks in feigned surprise and sounds almost like herself. Almost bored even. But the clenching of her jaw says otherwise even as she sips at her tea with all the serenity of a bodhisattva. _I take it black like my heart_ , she had quipped once.

 

Sherlock ponders the truth of that statement. Tea leaf reader scanning the remnants of the thing consumed as evidence to garner against her so casual profession of evil. He follows the path her eyes take to the door still left ajar by an exiting customer and back to the almost barbed tautness of a face that he still wishes less familiar. The metal in her eyes is still there, though brittle these days, more cast iron than steel.

 "You do." He affirms with some measure of concern and that is perhaps what grates on her nerves all the more. The repetition. The reminder of fraying threads exposing live wire.

She lifts the dainty tea cup to her lips again slowly and takes another small sip without breaking eye-contact. The blue in hers is a polar sheen of arctic. But it is the curve of her lips like cut glass that threaten to shred. She smiles now knowingly, "Perhaps I'm planning something darling. Something big."

 

.....

 

Joan had made the same questioning remark the night before after Jaime had quietly entered the room. Obsidian eyes watching the merest outline of her as she peeled her clothes off with practiced ease in the darkness and snaked underneath the covers. It hadn't taken long for the words to come then as she lay on her side, close enough to hear Joan breathing, but far enough that they weren't touching. 

 

Then came the same observation. The same question in the remark but more pointed, less concerned. "You seem tense." Jaime had deflected with the same response but this time suggestive and inviting, "Do I?" The dramatic rolling of Joan's eyes could be heard but not seen. It had been enough to distract, as Jaime moved over her like a gossamer wave and then anchored herself around her hips. Joan propped herself on her elbows squinting to find the points where the merest slivers of light caught her moonblush skin and glints of hair, wondering how anyone could move quite so very much like silk one moment and harden into marble the next.

Something was off. Something like distress wafting off of her skin and invading her senses. Joan leaned back and shifted freeing her arms as they found skin whose constellations could never be seen in the dark.

 

Jaime could practically hear the ticking of cogs turning as hints of obsidian still found and pierced her through the pitch between them.

 

"Joanie, stop. Your thoughts are deafening and the only thing I want to hear is you screaming my name." The eye roll again, now met by distracting hands and deflecting lips. Hushing her thoughts with her mouth everywhere until Joan shuddered and slid into a boneless stupor. But it was her own thoughts that she had been hoping to drown and she had failed entirely. Chasing new scar tissue with her fingers and meditating on the shallow inhalations and exhalations of a chest that had ceased entirely to rise beneath her blood-soaked hands; she curled her fingers tightly around a still mending wrist until Joan shot awake gasping in pain. "Jaime. Fuck." 

Jaime had let go but continued to almost absentmindedly caress the wrist she had shackled, the only sign of any contrition in that strangely gentle melancholy touch. "My turn," she said without apology even as she moved fractionally away from Joan who moved quicker, reaching for her round her waist. "Don't." It's the only word she'd had to say and Jaime had strangely complied, sinking back flush into Joan's chest. Joan who pulled her impossibly closer and sighed with a note of exasperation.

 

"We need to talk about what happened at the museum." At that, Jaime tensed steel cables between her arms until Joan kissed her shoulder.

"Not tonight." Her tone a firmly shut door.

 

"No, not tonight." Joan murmured in agreement as Jaime slowly uncoiled against her.

 

 

.....

 

She is saved the pleasure of Sherlock's reply as her eyes widen as they finally catch sight of a somewhat disgruntled Watson heading towards them. But he is still watching her face and his pinches in its peculiar way as his face sharpens while his mind scalpels. It is gone in a flicker of an eyelid, but he catches sight of that flicker and it is relief. Relief?

He watches as she makes room for Joan. Sliding out a chair for her but only just enough and still too close to leave much room between them. Joan reaches for Jaime's glass of water and wrinkles her nose in distaste as she nods towards the half-finished cup of strong black tea, "Why do you still pretend to like it that way?"

 

.....

Moriarty will not admit to the fraying threads or the throbbing at her temple or the red beneath her eyelids.

**Author's Note:**

> All titles in this series from Fangs by Little Red Lung


End file.
